


This Charming Man

by areyouserial



Category: Blue Bloods (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, Anal Sex, Crossover, Jamie Reagan's Not A Cop, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-07-08 06:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19864777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyouserial/pseuds/areyouserial
Summary: Noble Sanfino is a hustler. And for a hundred bucks a pop, he’ll satisfy a man’s urges and send him on his way so he can pay the rent. It’s not exactly a life of luxury, until a handsome and wealthy lawyer named Jamie Reagan gives Noble a taste of that life -- for one week. But in the end, what’ll it cost them both?





	1. The Lotus

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an intentional homage to the 1990 movie, Pretty Woman and you’ll see several direct quotes and similar threads of the movie’s plot, twisted and tweaked for Jamie Reagan and Noble Sanfino. The time period is the same, and the story is told in Noble’s POV. :) 
> 
> And I need to make a blanket disclaimer that I do not intend to make light of or glamorize the sex worker industry. The movie does, and that tone is carried out similarly in this fic. This is meant to be pure summertime trash and just for fun. I hope you enjoy!

“Tomorrow, your shit’s gonna be on the curb, Noble. And I’m changing the locks!”

“I’ll have your money by the morning!” I shout. “God _damn_.” Ducking down, I manage a quick glance in the crooked hallway mirror, ruffle a hand across my tamed, wavy brown hair and reach for the door.

Johnny’s hardly ever home, but when he is, he’s barking at me about rent money or the bills. I skate by as best I can and avoid my apartment when I know I’m late and he’s looming. But he’s in this hustle too, he should get it. I’ll manage, I always do.

I swing around the handrail and with quick steps, head down the cramped stairwell. Then I push through the squeaky, gated door onto Catherine Street. Spice and smoke tinge the night air, but if it weren’t for that, I’d say it’s a pleasant and promising September evening. 

I live in Chinatown, four flights above a narrow restaurant called _Delightful Food_ \-- and it’s exactly the opposite, I don’t recommend it. 

My life story doesn’t matter. Either I escaped or got lost at some point years ago, but ultimately here I am. A hustler. A rentboy. A prostitute. Whatever, I get paid to do something I’m good at and I don’t let it mean much more than that.

* * *

You’re not crashing at my place, Noble. No.”

“A couple days.” I plead, letting my arms fall across the bar. 

“It won’t be a couple of days and you know it." Bianca moves behind her post there, scooping ice into a martini shaker. She lifts out a sticky bottle of tequila and turns it over for a lengthy pour. "My roommate’ll kill me.”

“She wouldn’t even know I was there--”

“No.” She cuts me off. “I already let you drink for free. I’m not letting you live with me for free. Pay your damn rent!”

“It’s this new guy. He wants a fifty percent cut,” I explain. “Thinks he finds us better johns. High end guys, but they’re all bogus.”

“Well you know how I feel about it.”

“Don’t start, Bianca.”

“Fine. Then your two bourbon sours’ll be six dollars.”

With a roll of my eyes, I nod and finish off what’s left of my drink. Pushing back my bar stool, I slide the empty glass her way. “Send me the bill.”

I leave my sister with one curvy smirk before I turn and make my way through the crowded dive.

Once out on the curb at Houston Street, I fish my pack of smokes from the chest pocket of my white polo shirt. Retrieving one, I prop it between my lips and shield the end while I give it a light.

I don’t like to let myself stop and decide how I got here. I do that, and I fall into a spiral of shame and questioning that, in the past, has only led me to worse decisions. 

When I stay in control, at least I’m healthy. And that’s when I make the best money anyway. But it gets harder to hang onto that control when the outlook is grim. And considering I may not have a place to live tomorrow, my mind is already spinning and looking to escape with a tempting hit. Maybe if it’s strong enough, tomorrow won’t exist for me. That’s not such a bad idea.

My corner is on 1st Avenue down in the Bowery. People think all the action these days is in Times Square, which is true for a certain clientele. But with men looking to hook up with other men, most know they’re better off finding it downtown.

When it’s a business transaction, it’s easy for me to detach, to not get offended or judge what someone wants once they’ve paid me. 

But at the same time, I can’t be completely removed. A lot of these johns just want to feel validated, or be charmed or have someone to flirt with and not worry that they’re gonna be jumped or killed or _outed_. 

And yeah, for the most part, they want to be fucked. Almost always, the guys who pick me up are married -- to women -- and haven’t enjoyed sex for as long as they can remember. 

So it’s a balancing act of pleasing them and looking out for my own ass.

The roar of an engine that sounds far too foreign to this neighborhood snaps my attention. Leaning against a newspaper box, I take my time with a long drag from my cigarette as I watch the slick silver sports car make its way up the block. There’s rent baby. 

And that’s a goddamn Lotus Esprit. _Who’s this asshole?_

But it sputters at the corner as the driver turns onto Delancey Street and stalls out.

Pushing myself off the box, I start that way, angling my head to peer inside the open passenger window.

Behind the wheel is a guy about my age, neat chestnut brown hair, his face all angles, wearing a suit he doesn’t look comfortable in. But damn, it works for me.

“Hey handsome,” I murmur the casual greeting as I linger on the curb.

The driver turns to look at me, confusion drawn between his brows. 

“You wanna have fun tonight?”

Holding his hands up from the steering wheel as if to stop me right there, he blinks hard. “No, thank you.” Then fumbling with the gearshift, he turns his attention to it and I hear him mutter, “Come on, _fucker_.”

“Need some help?” I offer.

Managing a deep breath, he sits back a little in his seat. “Yeah, can you tell me how to get to the Waldorf in Midtown?”

“Sure.” My answer hangs there while I lift my smoke for another drag. “For five bucks.”

He coughs out a disbelieving laugh. _Oh damn_. That stupid boyish smile of his changes his whole face. But it’s quick to morph back into one of disdain. “Five dollars for directions?”

“You’re a long way from Park Avenue.” I shrug, then lean closer to prop my forearms in the open ledge of the window. “Price just went up to ten.”

“You can’t do that,” he remarks.

“I can do whatever I want, babe. I'm not lost.” I hold his perplexed gaze for a moment, gleaming beneath city street lights and the glow from his dash. Then I straighten up only to turn around and lean my weight against the passenger side of his car. 

I hear him shift and I smile to myself at how dismayed he is. It’s pretty fucking cute.

“You got change?” He finally speaks up. 

I turn to see him present a twenty between his fingers. After averting a quick glance down the block and finding it clear, I flick my cigarette to the sidewalk, reach down and pull open the door. 

I drop into the passenger seat and take the bill. 

“For twenty, I’ll show you personal. Head straight, hang a right on First Avenue.”


	2. The Suite

My driver toggles the gearshift and the Lotus lurches ahead.

Concerned, I glance down as he shifts into second. “God damn,” he whispers at the jerky transition. “I despise British sports cars.”

With a cocked eyebrow, I try to hide the look I want to give him for such an asshole kinda complaint. “You serious? What, you don’t know how to drive stick?”

“Of course I do. But this one is so fucking… volatile. I’m more of an American muscle guy. Give me that any day.”

“I won’t argue with that.” I glance over at him and a little twitch of amusement pulls at his lips while he drives. “So then what’s the deal with this car?" I wonder. "You steal it?”

"No." He scoffs. "It’s a friend’s. I don’t usually drive in the city.”

With a nod, I look around, out the window as we ascend 1st Avenue on our way out of the gritty East Village.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

Letting my head tip back to the headrest, I turn my gaze his way. “What do you want it to be?”

All he gives me is a look that tells me he’s not entertaining the coy act.

I laugh softly. “Noble.”

“That’s your name.”

“That’s my name.”

He exhales an amused breath and murmurs to himself. “Noble, huh? How much do you guys make out there? Just curious.”

“Depends on what you want.”

“All I want is directions,” he reminds me. “You got that, right?”

“Right.”

His eyes cut to me for a moment, then back on the road, his throat clenching with a measured swallow.

“Can’t take less than a hundred,” I tell him.

“A hundred dollars a night--”

“An hour.”

He shakes his head. “You make a hundred dollars an hour? I find that hard to believe.”

“You can believe me when it comes to money.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks. “Me too.”

“Make a left on Forty-Ninth.”

Crossing over from the East Side, I watch the passing tree-lined Midtown side streets. Quiet at night, all properly residential, and it amazes me how people live here, shop here, stay in hotels here. I’ve only ever been on the outside, catching glimpses where I didn’t belong, then cast aside to the fringes once again.

“Park Ave is the next block,” I point out.

With another jolt, he downshifts but manages to make his way to the valet stationed in front of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. 

"Will you be needing the car again this evening sir?" I hear the attendant there call as we step out.

My ride chuckles. "I hope not."

My idle steps carry me off to the side, near a post for the bus stop. I assume we're parting ways here and it's an odd feeling but hey, that was an easy twenty bucks.

"Well thanks again," he offers.

I glance over to see him approach me. Standing, he's only slightly shorter than I am, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, highlighted by his perfectly cut navy suit. A golden tan that I bet he got vacationing on some yacht makes him look like he tastes so fucking good and I'm pissed that I'm merely resigned to be nothing but a navigator tonight. Damn what I wouldn't do to him. Or let him do to me. 

He holds out his hand and I wonder for a second if there's more cash there in his palm. But there's not. It's a simple handshake.

"No problem," I tell him meeting his hand with a firm grasp. 

Straightening his back, he slides his hands in his pants pockets and just looks at me a moment. Then he tilts his head a little toward the gilded revolving doors. "Would you join me upstairs?"

I don't hesitate when I answer him with a smile and an easy agreement. One I'm far more accustomed to. "You got it."

* * *

I fall in just a step behind him as we pass through the lobby of probably the most expensive hotel in New York City. Like if I stray too far from him, someone’s going to question me and I’ll get arrested -- and not for selling sex, but for not meeting dress code. My antsy hand lingers at my mouth while I chew on the side of my thumb and glance around, careful not to make direct eye contact with anyone. But I notice a guy in a suit peer down in disapproval as he passes me, probably offended over a scuff mark my Converse just left across the marble floors. 

My host makes a stop at the front desk to check for messages and makes a request to have a bottle of Glenlivet sent to the penthouse. _Scotch, seriously?_ We gonna go up and do some crossword puzzles too?

“Yes, Mister Reagan,” the desk attendant complies with a smile.

He turns away and I follow him to the elevators, appreciating the view of him from behind. _Yes, Mister Reagan._ Same here, girlfriend. 

There’s no conversation as we approach the elevator and take it to the top floor. Once we make our way to his suite and get inside, my nerves start to fade away.

“What’s your name, by the way?” I ask.

“Jamie.” He steps down into the sitting area and disappears for a moment. When he crosses back through, he’s without his suit jacket. Grasping at the knot in his tie, he loosens it and undoes the button of his white dress shirt at his neck. Then he goes to the writing desk over by the big window and starts to sort through a stack of envelopes and messages.

Hesitantly, I step down into the suite from the entryway. With an absent snap of my fingers, I clap my palm over my fist and take my time noticing everything.

“Jamie,” I echo back to him. “Is that like James?”

“It’s _like_ , Jameson.”

A smirk tugs at my cheek as I aimlessly pace the room. “You’re a classy guy, huh?”

“What makes you say that?”

I shrug. “The Lotus, this penthouse. You got people taking messages for you.”

He exhales a soft laugh and lowers into a plush chair behind the desk as I come closer. “My office pays for this suite,” he explains. “The car’s not mine.”

“The suit.” I nod at his tie.

He glances down at himself. “The suit is mine. But I don’t particularly love it.”

With a boost, I push myself up to land on the desk in front of him, careful not to knock over the lamp there. “I like it.”

From his leaned back position in his chair, he looks up at me as if confused about my choice of seat. Before he can question it, I dive in with the essentials.

“You know, if you wanna go ahead and pay me…” I remind him. “We could get things started here.” This sort of awkward back and forth is not necessary. It’s not a date, he doesn’t need to be so damn guarded and cool. I don’t care.

He manages a deep inhale and glances away as he adjusts in his chair. “Ah yes. Of course.” From his wallet, he produces a one hundred dollar bill and slides it on the desk. 

“Perfect,” I accept, tucking it down in my pocket. “Now. I’m versatile. I’ll top, or I’ll bottom. Depending on what--”

“Whoa. Noble.” He scoffs, condescending, but probably just uncomfortable.

I understand, though. Especially with guys like this -- straight guys who’ve likely never acknowledged such an inclination aloud -- the blatant topic can freak them out. 

“Sorry.” I smile at him. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to make small talk with me. I’m… y’know. I’m kind of on the clock here and I want to make sure we--” I pause to swallow unexpectedly. His gaze, a warm, striking green makes my throat feel hot. I clear it away before I murmur, “Use all our time.”

“Right, this time constraint. I forgot.” Then he pushes back his chair and stands in front of me. _Fuck_ , I wanna drag that tie off his neck with my teeth. “Let’s just go ahead and settle this,” he commands.

My heavy gaze lifts to him and I taste my bottom lip.

With the tilt of his chin, he inquires, “How much for the whole night?” 

Blinking in surprise, I look away. But he never does. I cough and the tip of my tongue traces the edge of my teeth as I entertain the notion. “Stay here?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I press my lips together before the corner pulls with a smug flick. “You couldn’t afford it.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “Try me.”

“Three hundred dollars.”

“Done.” With an easy acceptance, he backs away. “There. Now we can relax.”

Just then, a knock sounds on the door of the suite and we’re interrupted by room service. As Jamie goes off to answer it, I take a minute to find a sobering inhale and push myself off his desk. A spark of satisfaction and relief swells in my chest over the fact that I’ll be able to pay my rent tomorrow...


	3. The First Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another update! Here’s a warning for explicit sexual content in this chapter. Hope you’re enjoying! Thanks for the love.

A guy in hotel uniform sets a tray with the requested bottle of scotch over near the bar along with two heavy bottomed rocks glasses. Jamie offers him a polite nod and a handshake, undoubtedly with a few bucks, and he leaves us.

“Would you like a drink?” Jamie turns to look at me from across the room. 

Making my way over to the living room area of the penthouse, I wait for him there. “Sure.” I’m still a little bored with all of the formalities, but he’s calling the shots here. I just hope I’m not resigned to merely play therapist on the couch and listen to the life story of a man I most definitely would rather see naked. “Thank you,” I tell him as I accept the glass and the clink of his against mine.

“Cheers,” he murmurs and moves over to have a seat in the armchair.

“So what do you do, Jamie,” I start and slowly lower to sit on the ottoman that faces him. “To get set up in a place like this on the company dime?”

After a slow sip, he sets his glass on his thigh and twists it a little between his fingertips. “I’m an attorney.”

My chin lifts in recognition. “Ah ha. That was gonna be my guess.”

He smirks. “Is that right?”

“You’ve got that… sharp, useless look about you,” I tell him.

“Thank you.” Then his narrowed, meaningful squint earns him a smile.

“Trust me, it’s a good look.”

He’s quiet, but he takes his time to notice me. His gaze lingers, drawing a slow path across my features with an expression I can’t quite determine. 

So I just continue on. “You got a girlfriend? A wife?” Then I tip the glass to my lips for just a taste of the smoky whisky then set the glass on a nearby table. 

Jamie quirks an eyebrow at me. “Why would I--?” 

I shrug one shoulder. “Just figured.”

“I haven’t been with a woman since… sophomore year of college.”

It takes me a second to connect the dots and a gradual half smile surfaces. “You’re gay?”

His gaze darts away in confusion, then returns to me. “Was that not…” He gestures to me, then his chest. “Clear? What--”

“No, no.” I laugh softly. “Usually, it’s just--”

“You’re not?” He questions, his brow dipping in concern.

“I am!” I assure him. “But the clients I have are typically… straight. Or living straight lives. I thought you were straight.”

He exhales this sort of patronizing amusement. “No.”

“You’re out?”

“Yeah.” He answers like it’s obvious. Like, why wouldn’t he be? There are people who bother with being ashamed of something like that? Look at him.

“You have a boyfriend?” I wonder.

He tilts his head. “Next question.”

_Oh_. When he looks at me, the way his lips twitch, it’s like I feel it in my dick. Usually the guys who pick me up are closeted, sometimes terrified, generally desperate. But here’s Jamie, out and experienced and gorgeous and _fuck me_ , enough questions. Time to wreck this one.

With a thoughtful inhale, I stand up, nudging the ottoman back and he watches me. I reach for the back of my shirt, lifting my arms and pull it off before I toss it aside.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t stop me or tell me to wait, or look away in embarrassment. But his gaze roams the height of me. I can feel it. Then takes this obvious downward path, over my chest and stops at the low waist of my jeans.

In my line of work, there are johns who have a very specific type they’re looking for. They’ll pass me up for someone lankier or burlier depending on what they’re into. I’m kind of in between -- tall, athletic build even though you would never have found me on any team growing up. I was too high for that shit. But I take care of myself now and I box, and I quit using and the right guy can appreciate the payoff. 

Jamie has little to say, though. Just patient anticipation in his eyes. But I do notice the thick way he swallows when he tilts his head back on the chair and watches me lower to my knees on the floor. 

He already paid me, so I’ll keep steering under the assumption of what he wants until he indicates otherwise.

The room is quiet while we just watch each other and I make my way closer to him, in between his open legs. I take the glass from his hand and reach over him to set it on the side table.

Then I move back to him. I grasp his hips and he lets me tug him down a little so he slouches into the leather chair. He’s closer to me now as I lean over him, unloop the loose necktie ‘til it hangs down his chest. I work open the buttons on his shirt, just to the waist where it’s still tucked into his dress pants.

I’m not kidding, my mouth fucking waters. It gets tight in the back of my throat when I peer down at his chest, perfectly defined, a faint trail of hair, but otherwise smooth with what’s left of a faded, last-days-of-summer tan. He’s lean, but he looks like he could still choke me out. Shit, maybe he will and maybe I’d let him. 

Lowering my face, I graze his middle with the tip of my nose and I feel him draw in a breath at the contact. My parted lips just ghost over the center of his chest -- _god, I have to_ \-- before I lean in and look up at him.

_Next question_ it is. “What do you want?” I ask him. God damn, I'm dying for the heat of what I assume is his boozy, smoked vanilla kiss, but I urge the craving away with a deep breath.

Jamie's gaze grows heavy. “What do you do?”

“Everything,” I tell him. “But I don’t kiss on the mouth.”

His head cuts to the side, just a little as he looks to my lips before he replies, a softness in his low voice, “Neither do I.”

Slowly, I nod, as if it’s an agreement, before I sink lower and touch a kiss to the base of his throat. It takes some genuine self-control not to let a throaty growl sneak out of me because he smells incredible. Mentally, I reel it in and channel some of that need in my grip when I close my fist on the fabric of his shirt and tug it from his pants as I work my way down on him. 

Easing back, I unclasp his belt, his pants, and unzip him. Before I continue, he shifts a little and reaches over to the table for his glass of scotch. 

The fire in the way he watches me belies the casual power move. It sparks my own heat to see his throat clench, his eyes on me while he takes a drink. Then he just holds onto the glass, balancing it between his fingers as he props it on the arm of the chair. 

I slide his pants down his thighs, taking his boxer briefs with them and he lifts his hips when I do. _Fuck, that’s a nice cock_. Of course it is. The smooth, stiff arc as it strains toward his abdomen damn near hypnotizes me. 

I wrap my hand around it, teasing the velvety head with my thumb. Too bad about the self-control because I utter a gravelly hum in my chest and don’t even suppress it. 

My hand strokes down, splaying around the base of his shaft, and back up.

Jamie’s back adjusts in front of me, almost impatiently. “Don’t be that much of a tease,” he instructs. 

A hint of a smile curves on my lips before I dip down and guide him to my mouth. With my tongue, I taste the ridge that circles his shaft, get him wet there before I sink down on him a little more. 

I rethink my tendency to just fucking get after it. Personally I love a sloppy blowjob -- all saliva and careless determined jerking 'til the guy loses it. It's crazy the number of high powered CEO types who've wanted me to spit on them. Something about having all the say at work makes someone submissive as hell in bed. But like I said, I don't judge. 

Jamie doesn't strike me as that type, though. If he's a lawyer, especially in some elite circle, then people probably have him by the balls constantly. And here's where he takes back the control. Sign me the fuck up because his quiet authority he has right now is getting me so hot. _Damn_ , I hope he lets me swallow.

I work my slick fist a little more, taking him farther. 

He keeps me guessing, though. Practically noiseless aside from little moments where his breath hitches. _Alright, boss, I can put in the overtime_ , I think to myself as I adjust on my knees to make use of my other hand.

The tip of his dick hits the back of my throat and when my hand coasts along the underside of his balls, I'm finally rewarded with the heavy rush of Jamie's exhale. 

He won’t relax, though. I can feel how tense he is. I hear it in the way he won’t let his breaths fall into this helpless rhythm that I want so badly from him. He holds each one until his stomach twitches, until his chest jumps.

I want to look up at him. I wonder if his head presses back or if he’s watching me. But I can’t quite see as my mouth sinks hungrily, tasting him all the way down and stroking my wet fist back up.

Continuing with my hand, I squeeze a little as I pull my lips away and move in lower beneath his balls. There, I let out a hot exhale before I cover him with the heat of my mouth, my tongue working, exploring further down. And then I land on his taint and that’s the _fucking ticket._

“Ah… _god_ \--” Jamie manages in this restrained sigh and his hand goes to my head. _Hell yeah, baby, you thought you could hold out on me_. Then he hisses, “ _Shhh-it_ ” and half the word just comes out in a heaving breath from his chest, followed by a rumbling groan he fails to keep from me. He raises his hips and rocks against me. 

The way his pants are still halfway down his thighs makes it difficult to get as far as I want, so I return to his cock, urging that control he refuses to let go of to be mine. Until finally, after the air in his chest builds and more quiet curses are uttered, his hand digs into my hair and he lets himself come in my mouth.


	4. The Breakfast Table

When I wake up, I don’t know where I am. I’m alone in the middle of this bed, halfway covered by soft white sheets and a fluffy duvet. It’s quiet. Usually I wake up to sirens and car alarms blaring after a fitful night. But I’m surprisingly rested as my senses start to return to me.

Turning over on my back, I stretch before I manage to sit up a little. 

Damn, just this bed alone makes me feel like a high roller. Glancing around the room, I have to smile when I breathe out in disbelief. 

The drapes are closed on the floor-to-ceiling windows that face Park Avenue. On the chair over in the corner, Jamie’s suit jacket is still there and I find myself weirdly reassured that he isn’t gone. I don’t know why. Usually I’m ready to get the hell out after time with a client, even the rare overnight ones at far more disgusting hotels than this one. Or I’m relieved when they’ve left by the time I’m awake.

But I want to stay. I want to sink down in these covers and freeze time. Actually, I want to see if Jamie’s out in the living room and feels like going one more round before he kicks me out of here. I kind of can’t believe he’s letting me sleep.

Last night, after that chair affair, I was a little shaken. I’m not sure what it did to me, or what I felt. But it was different from a typical encounter with a john who usually shoots his load in thirty seconds with me. Talk about a _job_ , that felt like some real damn work to get this little prince off. Not that I mind; I could have done it all night.

But Jamie was quiet when it was over, taking just a moment to steady his breathing before he downed the rest of his scotch and nodded toward the bedroom.

I’d do whatever he wanted, but I was anxious, on edge for the control. I needed to steer for a minute. When he made his way toward the bed, I stopped him at the nearby mahogany table instead. He questioned it for barely a second before his gaze fell to watch me loom over him. He turned his head as I followed against him and he planted his hands against the ledge of the table. He let me grasp his hips from behind. 

I needed to stand. I needed to fuck him bent over. But I knew I couldn’t just take what I wanted so I still had to let him lead. He was into it, though, reaching behind after I rolled on a condom to guide me closer.

I steadied myself, slow as I ran a hand up the plane of his meticulously toned back, got him slick and worked my way inside him. 

I couldn’t believe how damn hot he was. It’s like some sort of fucking joke. I had to use my tricks -- that I haven’t had to summon since I was a teenager on Long Island -- where I would think about that episode of _The Flinstones_ where Fred makes five hundred pies so that I wouldn’t come too fast while I was fooling around in the back of Karen Romano’s car. I had forgotten what that felt like.

I mean _holy hell_ , this guy. He could forget to pay me and I wouldn’t even be mad. Well, that’s not true. But I had to wonder if some of his _efforts_ were for me. The man knew what he was doing. 

I came and Jamie didn’t that time, but after, he seemed content to be finished. We cleaned up. He told me to take the bed, he had work to do. And that was it. I slept better than I had in a long time. 

Finally forcing myself out from the covers, I stop in the bathroom before I find my clothes. Or my jeans, at least. My shirt is probably out in the other room. 

Carefully, I exit the bedroom, not sure what to anticipate. Then I make my way through the suite where I see Jamie sitting at the dining table.

He’s dressed in another suit. This one’s just a clean cut vest over a dress shirt with its top few buttons undone at his neck and it’s ruining my life. I’ve never been into this yuppy-scum-reading-the-paper shit but I am this morning and I’m going home an enlightened man.

A spread of probably everything this hotel makes for breakfast is laid out along the table. All that’s in front of Jamie, though, is simply a cup of coffee. He looks over and offers a pleasant enough face. “Morning.”

My gaze darts around all the food and back to him and I just kind of present my hand in a cursory wave. “Hey.”

“There’s breakfast if you’re hungry.” He points. 

Unsure of how I’m supposed to conduct myself here, I scratch the back of my neck and come closer to the table. There, I pluck a green grape from its stem on a tray of fruit and pop it into my mouth. He just watches me under an arched eyebrow.

"You're not eating?" I wonder while I chew.

"I'm not big on breakfast."

I glance away, curious about why all the food if he doesn't eat. "Well I won't turn down a free breakfast," I tell him. I lift a domed lid to find a platter of crispy bacon and I take a piece. Then I turn and prop myself up to sit on top of the table in an empty spot between the bacon and the tray of fruit. 

Setting his coffee cup on the saucer, he swallows and looks up at me, the same way he did when I sat on his desk last night. “You know, there are… chairs.”

I consider the seats around the table. “Ah.” Then I take another piece of bacon and move myself into one of them. “So… what kind of lawyer are you?”

“I am--” Jamie folds his newspaper back and sets it beside his cup. “Chief legal counsel for Prescott Capital, which is a private equity firm.”

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know what any of that means so I reach for a silver dollar pancake. “Mm-hm,” I hum, nervously folding the pancake in half and tearing off a piece between my fingers. “Is that… like, the cool kind of lawyer?”

Jamie just laughs softly and it feels good to see his face relent like that. “Cool like how? Like Atticus Finch?”

Over a bite of pancake, I furrow my brow. “I don’t know what that is.”

He laughs again, shaking his head and I don’t really care that he probably thinks I’m an idiot. 

I clarify, “No, I mean _cool_ like… not friends with cops.”

“I don’t do criminal prosecution if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Tilting my head side to side while I chew, I shrug like that’s good to know. 

“Mostly, I negotiate the buying and selling of investments. Of companies.”

I nod as I swallow my bite. “I dropped out of school in eleventh grade.”

He looks at me and this brief flash of I'm-sorry-to-hear-that sadness passes across his eyes. But I didn't say it for sympathy; I was just being matter of fact. 

A smile slants across my face. "I bet you went pretty far in school."

Jamie mirrors the look and reaches for his coffee. "I guess so."

"Your parents must be proud." I mumble the praise around a bite of pancake.

Swallowing hard, he sniffs in amusement then briefly glances down. He doesn’t have a response to that other than to sip from his coffee once more. After he sets it down, he remarks, “I get paid to do whatever my clients tell me to do, so--”

I finish my pancake and chuckle. “So we have that in common then.”

“Exactly,” he muses, redirecting his attention to the newspaper. 

I don’t want to overstay with the chit-chat, so I take one more grape as I push my chair back to stand up. “I’ll uh-- get ready to head out,” I tell him and I start toward the living room to collect my abandoned shirt from the night before. As I cross back through the suite to the bedroom, the realization hits me and I announce, “To Kill a Mockingbird!” Then I stretch back from the doorway to check with him. “Right? Atticus Finch?”

He glances back, his cheek curved with a smile I know he’s trying to fight before he merely nods and answers with a concise, “Right.”

I tap a fingertip to my temple then smack the door frame as I turn into the room.


	5. The Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for indulging this little fic on the side! This chapter features Noble’s musical talents and Jamie’s brilliant ideas.

“Mind if I grab a shower before I go?” I call out to Jamie who’s standing in the bathroom fastening the leather band of his watch. 

“That’s fine,” he murmurs, then turns his attention to the dark necktie he’s just draped around his collar. “I’m headed into the office. So when you’re done, you can just show yourself out.”

“Sounds good,” I agree as I linger in the bedroom waiting for him to finish. I come closer, propping my shoulder against the open door frame. 

“What kinds of things do you have lined up today?” He makes absent conversation with me while he loops his tie around in front of the mirror, tucks it from underneath but struggles to straighten it out.

I watch him, amusement twitching my lips. It’s like watching him try to shift that Lotus. “I don’t know. I gotta check my messages,” I tease before I make my way into the bathroom with him. “Here. Let me do that.”

Without argument, he drops his hands and steps back as I slide between him and the vanity and boost myself up on the bathroom counter to face him.

“I’m capable of doing it,” he tells me. 

I flip his collar up and undo the tie to start over. “I know,” is all I say, softly as I concentrate on adjusting the drape of the tie. I manage a thick swallow when I can feel him watching me and it takes some determination not to let my gaze wander to the tempting ridge of his jawline. And that damn mouth I want nothing to do with.

“I would think it’s harder tying it this way,” he notes, and I assume that means facing the tie versus being on the backside of it.

“I screwed the debate team in high school.” I let myself look at him and have to smile at the sweet bewildered squint of his eyes. “I’m kidding,” I tell him.

A laugh puffs out of him and he glances away.

“And it’s not any harder this way.” I finish, pulling the tie through and snug it down until the knot tightens. Then I reach back and fold down the collar. “There. Y’look good.”

“Alright,” he muses, peering in the mirror around me and adjusting the knot himself. “Not bad.”

I hop down from the counter. “You look ready to negotiate the buying and selling of investments.”

“Do I?” He chuckles. “That’s the look I was going for. Thank you. Bathroom’s all yours.”

“Thanks.”

He makes his way out and I watch him choose a new suit jacket from the closet before he goes.

Huffing a deep breath, I turn my attention to the shower and mentally ready myself to get out of here. Damn, it’s gonna be a shock to get back to the Chinatown highrise, but that’s the life. At least I’ve got three hundred and twenty bucks and memories of a top tier ass that I’ll definitely train my brain to think about on many future encounters.

Even this shower is first-rate. I turn it on and strip down, letting the water get hot before I step in beneath the spray. 

I know I shouldn’t linger here, but the water’s so hot and I can’t remember the last time I took a genuinely hot shower with actual water pressure. Even this shampoo is fancy.

I soap up, humming to myself and let the loud spray of water hitting tile muffle my voice when I start singing. 

“… It isn’t safe to walk the _city streets alone_

Anticipation’s… running through me…”

Rinsing off, I appreciate a few more minutes, swiping my palms up my wet face, back through my clean hair. Then I shut off the water and keep mumbling my Eddie Money rendition as the song builds. “Something… something… _engine on_!”

“I can feel you breathe

I can hear your _heart beat faster_ …”

Through the steam, I push the glass shower door open and reach for a towel on the nearby shelf. 

“Take me home tonight! I don’t wanna-- _Jesus_!” I’m startled, huffing air from my chest when I see Jamie standing right there in the bathroom, leaning against the edge of the counter. 

I rub my face with the towel and blink hard. “I didn’t think you were still here.”

He merely strokes a hand along his jawline and lets out one of these little soft laughs. “I was on a phone call.”

“Oh,” is all I can manage.

Jamie’s gaze flicks down which is only natural since I’m standing here naked and haven’t situated the towel around myself yet. But then he pushes himself a step back and turns out of the bathroom. “You’re not a bad singer.”

With a shake of my head, I scoff. 

Then he announces, “Come out here. I have a business proposition for you.”

“Alright.” Unfolding the towel, I take a second to swipe it over my hair and down my chest before I sling it low around my waist and follow him to the bedroom. But I stop at the bathroom doorway and just lean my weight there.

“I’m going to be in the city until Sunday,” he tells me. “I’d like you to spend the week with me.”

My brows lift and I feel a smile flick the corner of my lips. “Really? A week doing what?”

“I have a major client based in New York and we’re working on a deal that’s gonna take some time,” he explains. “You don’t need to know the specifics. But I just got off the phone with one of my partners…” Jamie pauses a moment, tilting his head as if he’s pondering how to pitch this. His hands gesture before he actually speaks. “It would _look good_ , let’s just say, if I had… somebody with me. Dinners, events, that kinda thing.”

“Like, you were told to bring a date?”

“More or less,” he smiles. “I’d hire you. It’d be a clean business deal. I would be paying you, essentially as an employee.”

My brow furrows in confusion. “You’re… hot. And loaded,” I figure. “Why pay me? I’m sure plenty of men are banging down your door for free.”

He considers it as he slips his hands into his pants pockets. “I want a professional. I’m not interested in any romantic bullshit this week.”

I can feel my eyes flicking all around his face as I process what this means. If he wants to bang every night, great. But going to dinners and whatever else is necessary to make these kinds of billion dollar deals -- I’ve never been hired in that capacity. I’m not exactly the most brilliant in social settings. But I decide not to reveal that concern because he just called me a _professional_ and I kinda liked it. Plus we need to talk price and despite the fact that I’m currently wearing nothing but a towel, I’ve got the upper hand here.

With a deep inhale, I glance off in thought. “You’re talking twenty-four hours a day. That’s gonna cost you.”

“Of course,” he concedes, turning to back up a step before he faces me with arms folded. “Give me a ballpark figure. How much?”

“Six full nights, plus days--” Then I ruffle a hand through my hair and make my best attempt. “Four thousand.”

“Six nights at three hundred is eighteen hundred,” he reminds me of my own rate from last night. 

“You want days too.”

He submits his offer. “Two thousand.”

“ _Three_ thousand.”

“Done.” He nods, with this little pull at his cheek acknowledging that this is sort of ridiculous negotiation. 

A laugh rumbles in my throat and I turn away toward the bathroom. I reach back and push the door shut behind me because I’m about to fucking cackle or make some other insane noise at the notion of making that much money.

“Is that a _yes_ , Noble?” He checks from the other side of the door.

I turn and quickly tug it open. Propping my forearm along the door frame, I try to look more composed. “Yes.”

His gaze is heavy. “Good.”

This close to me, he makes my heart beat too fast and it’s probably not okay. He’s got this smirk and this etched jawline, but when a smile surfaces, it’s like... this godawful dreamboat smile that I don’t think I can tolerate for a week. But I’m a professional and for three grand, I’ll squash any and all reactions to it. He’s not _that_ cute.

“Do we need to set some ground rules?” I wonder.

He turns away to head out into the suite and I follow behind him. “Yeah,” he answers. “I do.”

I blink hard when I realize they’re his terms, but I guess that’s the nature of the deal.

“You can stay here. Don’t take any more clients this week,” he lists, moving over to the desk where he packs folders and documents into a briefcase. “Don’t answer the phone.” Then he pulls his wallet from his pocket and opens it before he thumbs through a few hundred dollar bills. “Use this today to get something to wear. You need a suit. We’re having dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?”

“A business dinner with clients.”

I suppress an inward groan and then I look at the money he sets on the desk. “Okay.”

“Does that work for you?” He shuts his briefcase and comes my way.

I nod as he approaches. “And no romantic bullshit,” I repeat, as if confirming the original ground rule.

He steps up and cuts his head to the side once. “Definitely not,” he murmurs before he turns and starts toward the door.

“I would have stayed for two thousand,” I call after him.

He stops and turns back, approaching me once more where he sets a sparky look on me and says, “I would have paid four.” Then he heads out, noting, “I’ll see you tonight” before he goes.


	6. Something To Wear

“Bianca.”

“Who is this?” My sister’s scratchy voice mumbles on the other end of the line.

“It’s me!” I angle the receiver closer to my mouth before I pick up the hotel phone from the nightstand and pull it onto the bed.

“Noble,” she realizes and I can hear her shifting around. I obviously woke her up. “I tried calling you all night. You never answered.”

“I haven’t been home.”

“Are you okay?”

“Guess where I am.”

“Oh jeez.” She groans. “I told you if you get arrested, to use your one phone call on Bobby because I don’t have bail money--”

“No listen.” I blow that off, refusing to acknowledge that of all places, she assumes I’m in jail. “A guy picked me up last night -- in a fucking Lotus Esprit -- and I’m in his penthouse at the Waldorf Hotel.”

“What?” She shouts.

“Yeah,” I laugh. “And get this. He wants me to stay the week and he’s gonna pay me three thousand dollars.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“No.”

“What’s up with him?” She wonders.

“I don’t really know.”

“Is he… like, deranged?”

I chuckle. “No. Well. He doesn’t seem to be.”

“Ugly?”

“He’s…” And I pause, closing my eyes because I need to stop believing that he’s so goddamn attractive. It’s going to get me in over my head. “Decent-looking.”

“What sort of-- No, don’t answer that.”

“It’s like he just wants someone to hang out with him for the week.”

“That can’t be it,” she doubts.

“But here’s the thing. I have to go to fancy dinners and shit with him because he’s some big deal and I’m supposed to wear a suit. So will you help me?”

* * *

“Can’t we just go to Canal Street?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at my sister and book it through the crosswalk. “I’ve seen this sign in my neighborhood -- two suits for thirty dollars. They’ll custom fit.”

“Noble, that place has roast duck hanging in the window, you’re not getting a suit there.”

“They sell the suits out of the back.”

"No. You need something nice," she insists. "This guy is expecting you to look the part. That's why we're on Madison Avenue."

I peer up at the sleek designer storefronts, one right after another, and I sort of dread the idea of spending money up here. But obviously Bianca doesn’t because she tugs on my arm and hurries over to one of the shops.

Inside I don't even know what I'm looking at. Backlit shelves feature like, one tie displayed next to a rack with minimal options of white shirts. As we peruse, I flip over a price tag on a sleeve and see six hundred and something dollars before I flick it from my fingers and move on. 

"Is there something I can help you with?" One woman proposes, whose gaze has been trailing us from the front counter since we came in here. 

Bianca speaks up. "Oh, we're just looking."

I glance over and offer my best attempt at a pleasant smile but I know I just make her uncomfortable.

"What is it you're looking for?" A man -- probably the manager and definitely gay -- rounds one of the displays and feels compelled to join in this investigation. He eyes me, and not in the intrigued way Jamie does, but like he can't believe I've set foot in his store in a shirt I've had since high school and jeans I stole from an ex. 

I chew nervously on the edge of my thumb. "I uh… was checking out your suits," I tell him. Then I look over and spot a headless mannequin in what looks like a normal enough suit. "How much is this?"

The manager, with his John Waters mustache that he's not pulling off, tilts his head. "I don't think that would fit you."

A puff of a laugh escapes me. "I didn't ask if it would fit. I asked how much it was."

He blinks over at his associate. "How much is that suit, Annette?"

The woman, wearing big dangling earrings, her bleached, almost white hair pulled back tight narrows her gaze. "It's very expensive."

He looks at me and echoes, "It's very expensive."

"Listen," Bianca pipes up. "We've got money to spend in here--"

"Hey." I stop her with a subtle touch on her arm. "Don't." These assholes would call the cops for nothing. 

"I think you're in the wrong place," the manager tells us. "And you should leave."

"Oh," my sister gripes. "Why, what are you gonna--"

"Come on," I mutter to her with a step back. "Let's go." And I can't even look at these people as we turn for the door. 

"I wouldn't shop here anyway," Bianca can't help but chirp over her shoulder as I lead her away. "Unless I was some--" Then she pauses to gesture a swirling hand at the salesman. "Washed up magician."

I push open the door and I hear the man bid us a fake _good day_ before I look back and see Bianca present her middle finger and follow me outside.

"Jesus, what a dick," she complains. 

I'm already lighting a cigarette on the sidewalk when she makes her way over. "Yeah well--" I hold my inhale for a calming beat before I let out a steady stream of smoke and we start walking. "What do you expect?"

"Let's try Macy's or something," she suggests.

"No." I'm already over it and I set my gaze some place far away. "I'm probably just gonna bail."

"Fuck them, Noble. We'll go somewhere else. How hard is it to buy a damn suit?"

"I don't want to, Bianca." I cut her off and walk a little faster, making it hard for her to keep up as we weave through the people on Madison Avenue. 

"You gonna bail on three grand because a couple nobodies at a store were mean to us? Who cares about them?"

Apparently I do because it got to me. The way they looked at us got under my skin. I don't know how it's so thin all of a sudden; people judge me all the time and I'm pretty good at ignoring it. But I'm too aware of it now -- how l _ess than_ I am. Why should I try to fake that I'm not?

"I'm gonna go back to the hotel," I tell her once she's at my side again. "I'll figure it out."

She knows me well enough not to press and just walks with me for a minute. “You sure you’re good?” She eventually asks.

After a long drag, I flick some ash away and lift my chin to slowly exhale. “I’m good.”

“You promise you’ll call me, okay? I worry about you.”

“Bianca,” I chuckle. “Do you realize what you’re walking me back to? This is easy. Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I’m worried you’re going to get hurt.”

I look over at her. “ _Hurt_ drinking scotch in some rich guy’s penthouse? I don’t think you understand the kinds of shady places I’ve ended up in the middle of the night. This is like a vacation.”

“I don’t mean _hurt_ like that. Like that guy who tried to stab you,” she says. 

I glance down, considering it over another drag. “I know what you mean,” I murmur. “It’s just a job.”

“Alright,” she agrees softly. “I’m gonna leave you here then, and head downtown.”

That’s probably a smart decision. The staff at the Waldorf-Astoria don’t need to leer at me walking in with this chick with fire red hair and an artfully torn up KISS t-shirt, leather mini skirt and fishnet tights. They already have their suspicions about me. Although a part of me does want her to walk through that lobby just to give someone a stroke. 

“I’ll call you,” I assure her. And with a hug at the corner, we part ways and I head on to Park Avenue.

Once I push through the revolving door, I keep my head down but I’m only a few steps in when a woman in a smart skirt suit follows in step beside me.

“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” She wonders.

I keep walking. “I’m going to my room.”

“You’re a guest here?” 

And just then I remember I forgot to take the credit-card-looking key thing with me to let myself back in. “Yeah.” I scratch a hand through my hair and slow my pace to look at her. “I’m on the top floor. I’m… staying with someone.”

Her gaze falls briefly. “And who would that be?”

“Jamie,” I tell her, then press my lips together in this guilty way and sort of hope that my otherwise charming face convinces her to let me into the room.

“Jamie,” she repeats. 

“Mm-hm. Jamie…” Then I glance away for a moment. “The… lawyer.”

She nods once. “Right. I’m going to need you to come with me.”

“Ah, _come on_ ,” I complain, suddenly louder which I know isn’t helping my case. She places a hand on the middle of my back and guides me around the corner. “God, _what_? What is _with_ everyone today?” I call out irritably as she steers us down a hallway door and I’m led into what I assume is her office.

“Now what is your name, young man?” She wonders after I’ve sunk down in one of her leather chairs opposite a heavy desk.

“What do you want it to be?” 

She blinks from her seat, but otherwise her face doesn’t move as she stares me down. 

I give in. “Noble.”

“Thank you. Noble. I’m Jacqueline Hart, I’m the manager of this hotel. Now--” She starts in, folding her hands on top of her desk. It makes me feel like I’m in the principal’s office. “Things that go on at other hotels don’t happen here at the Waldorf-Astoria. However, we take very good care of our guests. And Mister Reagan is a very special guest. We’d like to consider him a friend and for a friend, we’ll make certain exceptions.”

I cut my eyes to the side to keep from rolling them skyward. _I could tell you stories of things that actually go on at these hotels, lady._

She goes on. “So I assume you’re a…” Then she pauses and looks at me, eyebrows raised. 

My forehead creases and I stall for an answer.

“Family member?” She finishes.

Bringing my hand to my mouth, I bite the edge of my finger and mutter, “Yeah. I’m his…” Then I clear my throat and shift. “--Cousin.”

“Of course.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “That’s fine. And I hope it’s your understanding that after your stay here, we won’t be seeing each other again--”

I blink in surprise, pulling my chin back.

“And while you’re here,” she continues. “I think it would benefit you to dress more appropriately for a hotel of this caliber. That’s all--”

“No--no-no.” I sit up. “That’s not all. See, that’s the problem. I tried to go out today to pick up some things to wear while I’m here, but it’s like I couldn’t get any help. Which is bullshit,” I rant, shifting to reach into the pocket of my jeans and I notice her visibly stiffen as she anticipates my next move. I dig out the cash and present the rumpled, folded bills. “Because I have all this money. Right? But the people at these stores are assholes--”

Furrowing her brow, Jacqueline turns toward her phone, and tries not to let the alarm surface on her face but I can see it in her eyes.

“What?” I wonder as she picks up the receiver and presses one of her speed dial buttons. “What, are you calling the cops? Great.” I shrug, slumping back in the chair. “That’s great. Tell them I said hi--”

She swallows hard. “Sam in menswear, please.”

I shut my mouth and watch her, one eyebrow gradually perking up.

“Sam, this is Jacqueline Hart from the Waldorf. How are you?” She pauses, glancing off to the side with a grin, then lets out this airy giggle as they exchange opening small talk. “I’m sending over a very special friend this afternoon. His name is Noble and I would be so appreciative if you could take good care of him for me.”


	7. It's Not A Date

The phone’s ringing as soon as I get myself back into the suite. With the garment bag hanger hooked on my finger, I make my way over to the desk, drop my other shopping bags and pick up the receiver. **  
**

“‘Lo?”

“I told you not to answer the phone.” Jamie’s voice reminds me.

I smile anyway when I hear him. “Then why’re you calling me?”

“To let you know that I’ll meet you in the hotel bar at seven sharp, then we’ll head to dinner.”

“You’re not coming to the door to pick me up?” I tease him. 

“It’s not a date. It’s business.”

Since he can’t see me, I just make a face at the phone to mock how serious he feels he needs to be. “You got it, boss.”

“Did everything go okay finding something to wear?” 

I adjust the garment bag at my shoulder. “Uh yeah, I should be good.”

“Alright. Well I’ll see you tonight.”

We hang up and I blow out a deep breath, a little overwhelmed at all that’s gone on this morning. And then the phone rings again.

Quickly, I lift the receiver. “Hello?”

“I told you _not_ to pick up the phone.” This time his voice is a little more playful and I just imagine him there in his office, asking his secretary to dial the number again just to fuck with me.

“Then stop calling me,” I insist, and I hear his little amused chuckle before the line goes dead.

I bite my lip when I smack the receiver back down. With a smirk, I shake my head and mutter, “That sick fucker.” That’s when I realize all I want is to see him again.

* * *

Thank God for Jacqueline. And Sam from Bloomingdale’s because they both helped me find a freaking suit which was apparently a task that was too difficult to accomplish myself. I guess my Converse would have been a poor choice so it’s a good thing I had Sam there to think about all the other pieces I’d need to look presentable. 

But that afternoon, I start to feel this swell of panic when I remember this isn’t just a night in Jamie’s penthouse. He might find my social inadequacies slightly amusing, but I have no idea who I’m going to have to interact with at this dinner table tonight.

Making my way through the busy lobby, still in my trusty jeans and t-shirt, my gaze darts around nervously. Finally I see Jacqueline having a conversation with another man in hotel uniform and I hurry over to her.

“Hey Jacque--” I start. Then I turn and offer the other guy an apologetic smile.

Jacqueline clears her throat and looks over at me.

“Sorry,” I exhale. 

With a glance at her employee, he backs away and she acknowledges me. “Is everything okay? Something went wrong with the clothes--”

“No, no, I’m good. I just-- I need your help.”

* * *

“This is the salad fork.” She stands over me in the near-empty hotel lounge where I’m seated at a table. Jacqueline made a practice place setting for me and points to the outermost fork and there seem to be way too many things around this plate in front of me. “Dinner fork. Dessert fork.”

“Uh-huh,” I mutter.

“Lay your napkin on your lap within the first minute of sitting,” she instructs.

I unfold the cloth napkin in front of me and follow her directions.

“Sit up straight and don’t fidget.”

My shoulder lift defensively. “Okay.” And I remind myself to keep from chewing on my finger.

“If there’s a lady present, you wait to sit until she has taken her seat before you sit down.”

I blink hard but simply hum in the affirmative. 

“If there’s food you don’t know how to eat,” she continues. “Watch how someone else does it, or just ask.”

I look up at her. “Food I don’t know how to eat?” 

“Sure. Like an artichoke where you peel the petals off and suck on them and discard them on your plate--”

I make a face. “I’ll pass on that.”

She goes on with her list. “Order something you know how to pronounce.”

I exhale a soft laugh. “Okay.”

“And smile. And don’t be so nervous,” Jacqueline finishes with this reassuring grin I would have never guessed she’d be capable of. 

* * *

I don’t have a watch but I feel like it’s got to be after seven at this point. I’ve been sitting at the hotel bar, just long enough to nurse half a cocktail which hasn’t done anything to diffuse these nerves I have. _Smile and don’t be so nervous_ , I recall. I guess that’s all I can do. 

The suit I’m wearing is a deep blueish-grey, dark and contrasted by my white dress shirt and simple black tie. I really tried to talk Sam out of the tie, but it’s apparently necessary. After another hot shower and a shave, I was ready in ten minutes.

Sitting back, I glance around from my seat when I see Jamie make his way inside the lounge. He’s dressed like he was when he left for work this morning, his dark suit, white shirt, still with that briefcase. Casually, he looks around and I can see the flash of concern on his brow for a moment that he can’t find me.

I step down from the barstool I’m occupying and decide to walk toward him, miraculously without fidgeting. Although, sliding my hands into my pants pockets doesn’t hurt. 

When he sees me, he doesn’t say anything. But faintly, his brows pull together in this disbelieving way, his gaze averting for a moment almost like he’s confused.

I stop when I get to him and offer my greeting with a curvy smirk. “You’re late.”

Jamie opens his mouth but just exhales this breathy laugh, shaking his head. “I’m sorry you had to wait.”

“Not a problem.”

He tries to be sly about the way he assesses me and just mutters a soft “Damn” before his cheek twitches. “You ready to go?”

With an easy shrug, I affirm, “Let’s do it.”

We turn and I’m at his side as we walk through the lobby and I can’t help tip just a little, nudging my shoulder into his. 

He glances over at me and there’s this damn look on his face -- a charmed, restless tug at his lips and green eyes that keep too many secrets -- that he needs to put a stop to.

“They’re just clothes,” I say and give him this teasing squint.

Jamie shakes his head once. “I’m not looking at the clothes. I’m looking at you.”

“Ohh, man.” I manage a low, amused groan and tip my head back. Then I reach over and clap a friendly hand in the middle of his back. “Come on. Let’s go break some hearts. Mine’s off limits.”


	8. The Piano

“So tell me if I’ve got this right.” I announce. I ditch the jacket and tie as soon as I make it back to Jamie’s hotel suite, loosen the top button on my dress shirt and join him out on the balcony. “You want this guy Morris’ company. But he doesn’t want to let you have it, even though it’s in trouble.”

Jamie was quiet on the ride back from dinner. The meeting between him and these potential clients — a father-son partnership whose company needed Jamie’s firm, but didn’t want to hand it over at the expense of their pride — seemed contentious from what I could tell. I half paid attention to their passive aggressive insults disguised as _playing hardball_ but the rest of the time I was just trying to remember which fork to use and making sure I didn’t get drunk.

Jamie seems lost in thought where he sits in a chair he’s partially pulled onto the balcony. “More or less,” he answers.

“I thought it went okay,” I offer, as if I have any valuable insight, but I’m just making conversation. There’s a sturdy stone guard along the edge of the balcony, like a railing, that I boost myself up to sit on, my back to the cityscape. “I think you’re torn up about it because you actually liked the guy.”

“I’m not torn up,” he defends. “What I would like is for you to get down from there. Please.”

“What, does it make you nervous?”

“Just… please.”

“You afraid of heights?”

“A little. Yeah,” he admits, glancing down at his chair legs in the open door frame. “Look at me, I’m barely even out here.”

“Would it make you feel better if I—” And then I angle back a bit, peering over my shoulder at the steep, forty-something story drop below. 

“Stop.”

“It’s really high,” I note. “What if I fell?”

“Your ass would be dead and I never knew you.”

I chuckle, adjusting to sit upright with my feet dangling. 

He glances away with a deep breath seeming to consider what I said. “It doesn’t matter whether I like the guy. Business is business. I keep my personal feelings out of it.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m the same way. You get emotional, things get messy. That’s why there’s no kissing. Too personal.”

Jamie lets out this soft laugh, then cocks an eyebrow feigning seriousness. “Good thing I didn’t kiss him.”

“I mean for me.” I smile. “I gotta keep feelings out of it. Otherwise, I’m not thinking clearly.”

My two cents seems to vaguely amuse him and he looks down, a faint smirk at his cheek. “Noble, we both screw people for money, don’t we?” He muses. “Maybe we have more in common than I thought.”

“You think that makes either one of us bad people?” 

Lifting his gaze to me, he offers a lazy shrug. “I can’t speak for you. What I do for a living probably hurts more people than what you do. And yet what you do is criminalized.”

“It can’t _hurt_ if it’s not personal, like you said. It’s people’s money, it’s not feelings.”

“Well in Morris’ case, it’s a lifetime of enterprise, of hard work down the drain. He’ll be lucky to walk away with half a million if this deal goes through.”

I scoff. “Walking away from anything with half a million doesn’t exactly equal work _down the drain_ to me. It sounds insane that he’d be heartbroken over that.”

Jamie tilts his head to acknowledge it. 

“So why do you have a soft spot for this guy?" I wonder. I could tell something bothered Jamie about the harsh negotiation that had the old man ready to leave the table.

Jamie runs his hand along his jaw while he ponders it. “Maybe he reminded me of my dad. I don’t know,” he murmurs.

I press my lips together, my pulse there warming a little when he finally looks at me. Then I narrow my gaze, perceptive that we shouldn’t go down this path. “Do you want to talk about this?” 

He laughs. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Pressing my hands on the ledge, I swing down to my feet and approach him. “How about… we lose these clothes. See if there’s a good movie on or something? Relax.”

Closing his eyes, Jamie shakes his head. “I think… I’m gonna go for a walk,” he tells me. “But… feel free. Make yourself comfortable.”

I can tell he’s someplace else and I nod a soft agreement, “Alright,” before I head back into the suite.

* * *

When I wake up, I’m on the couch. Half the room is still lit and an old black and white movie is playing on TV across the room. I don’t even remember falling asleep.

Sitting up, I glance down at myself. I guess I never changed out of what was left of my suit, my white dress shirt unbuttoned and untucked from my dark blue slacks. 

Turning my head, I listen for some sign of Jamie before I get off the couch. A short check of the room around the corner shows me it’s just past two a.m. but he’s not here.

I could just get in bed but it feels strange knowing Jamie’s been gone this long. I don’t know what I expect to find, but I decide to head downstairs.

In the elevator, I secure a couple buttons -- just enough to look decent -- on my shirt and run a hand through my sleep-mussed hair before I make my way across the quiet lobby.

Off in the corner, I peer into the dim hotel lounge when I hear the sleepy piano hidden in the back of the bar.

It’s nearly empty inside as my slow pace carries me in. Overturned chairs are stacked on the tables except for a few where some busboys are having a smoke. 

Across the way, Jamie sits at the piano. I see his back, that black vest, his tailored white shirt pushed up his forearms as he concentrates on his fingers that move along the keys.

It’s a view I wasn’t expecting, with an effect on me I wasn’t expecting either. Unsure if I should even be here, I just sort of stand there and listen.

His playing tapers off and his hands fall from the keys. He seems surprised when a couple of the guys from the staff offer faint applause and he laughs softly, turning to acknowledge them.

Then he sees me and straightens up on the bench. “Hey.”

Smiling, I come closer, sliding my hands in my pants pockets. “That sounded nice.”

“I wasn’t tired,” he explains. 

I nod slowly. He needs to cut it out with this man-of-few-words, twitchy eyebrow, heavy gaze routine when he looks at me because it’s hot as hell and I don’t have near the level of self-control that he does. “Well if you want to come upstairs, I can help you with that,” I tease.

That heavy gaze falls, along the open collar of my shirt, then lower, like he has no intention of going anywhere. 

He reaches out for my wrist, sliding his grip down my forearm to guide me closer.

I follow his cues. Whatever he wants he can have. And I know he’s decided when the outline of the growing ridge of my dick in my pants catches his attention.

He shifts to glance over his shoulder. “Could you… gentlemen excuse us? Please,” he announces.

After a moment, the three workers stack their chairs and head out, the last one removing the stop to close the door to the bar behind them.

I exhale a soft laugh and turn to look at Jamie. “Do people always do what you tell them to do?”

From where he sits, he pushes his palm up the side of my thigh, giving this needy squeeze right below my ass before he tugs me closer. He fits me in front of him, between the piano and the bench. 

With a measured inhale, he runs that wandering hand over the front of my pants, lower along the inside of my thigh, giving it this rapt attention that makes me forget to breathe. 

Tilting my head back, I exhale at the ceiling, then peer down at him and answer myself, “Mm. I guess so.”

His hand makes its way up, trails the buttons on my shirt and works them open. Sitting up straighter, he runs his palms along my sides, warm on my skin, doing that unspoken assessment of me. When he glances up, lifting his gaze to meet mine, it almost makes me push his head back down. The way he looks at me sends a flash of heat deep somewhere in my chest and I wouldn’t know the last time I felt something like that. But _god_ , please don’t do that to me again. I can't take it.

Jamie leans forward, letting the top of his head fall to rest against my stomach and he pauses for a shallow breath that makes his back tremble a little.

Unsure exactly what he wants from me in this moment, I let my hands find his head, trailing across the back of it, raking fingers through his neat hair.

He eases back, his fingers tug the button of my pants, then the zipper before he adjusts to dip his hand inside. The pressure of his stroke along the outside of my underwear makes my pulse jump, and then eventually, he pulls down the waistband there.

Oh, my god. He’s got to be kidding me. Or this has to be a dream. 

I look out across the room. There's no one around but I can't be sure. I've done plenty in semi-public places -- handjobs in cars, the park, fucked in saunas or at parties, whatever -- where I had to be quick or where other people probably saw, and I didn't care. But this feels different. Like it's a moment that needs my full attention, just for us, and I don't want to let myself notice anything else. 

And when Jamie runs an appreciative fist up the length of my shaft, I nearly forget where we are. I mean, fuck it. If people want to see, good for them. 

His mouth is on me soon enough as he leans in from the edge of the bench, licking a path around the head of my cock.

I try to swallow my exhale but the breath rushes out anyway. And when I hear the faint hum of Jamie's groan as he sinks more of me in his mouth, this wave of heat throbs in my core. _Shit_ he looks good with his lips wrapped around my dick. I want to tell him but I don't know how verbal he wants me. 

Leaning back, my hands reach behind to prop me up and I press down on a few accidental piano keys.

"Ahh--" I sigh, the noise catching me off guard. I see Jamie pull off with the hint of an amused smirk before he angles his head and moves back in, his fist trailing the slick path his mouth leaves.

I adjust, moving a hand to his head, and then my ass nudges another discord of notes. "Fuck," I mutter. I press my lips together to silence a moan and it rumbles like gravel in my chest.

I've had men pay for the explicit purpose of blowing me. And those experiences range from pretty damn awful to… adequate at best. But Jamie is in another fucking league. Between the possibility of someone watching, the majority of our clothes still on, and the way he's stroking a palm beneath my balls while he works me, this fucker's gonna own me.

I've got to get some control. Standing up straighter, I push off the piano and come closer to him. His head in my hands, I drag one through his hair, down his back. Inhaling deeply, I don't even suppress my low, lazy groan that lets him know how fucking good he is.

He shifts when I move, sliding one hand around my ass. He digs his grip into the curve there, urging my hips against him. 

My face tips up to look at the ceiling. "Jesus, _fuck!"_ I swear and this time it's loud but what the hell am I supposed to do?

I tilt my hips closer and he treats me to another little moan, leaning in, tasting me farther. _Don't even tease me because I will fuck that mouth if you keep up this hungry and eager act, Jameson._ God _damn_.

But fuck, I couldn't take over if I tried. I'm just _his_ and hopeless. I swear to god, if he swallows me I've got to go ring shopping tomorrow.

I can't wait to get him back upstairs, repay the favor any way he wants. _Yes, yes, yes. I don’t deserve you. Holy shit._

My rhythmic panting falls in time with his pace. I squeeze his hair between my fingers and in a shaky breath, manage to tell him " _Fuck_ , I'm gonna come, Jamie."

He doesn’t stop, just approves with a low hum and strokes his fist until I’m pushed over that edge.

My air, my restrained praise, my desperation for him not to stop gets caught in my throat in an effort to keep myself quiet when I come. I grip his shoulder, my core seizing a few times, broken exhales announcing the force of my release. 

“Mm, oh my _god_ ,” I finally huff, a subtle grunt escaping me with the last twitch of my orgasm just before Jamie eases away. I run my hand through his hair and he glances up at me. 

His green eyes are darker, catching the low light. And just before the hint of a smirk flicks the corner of his lips, he swallows hard, clenching the back angle of his jaw. “Let’s go upstairs.”


End file.
